


It Happened on a Night at Halamshiral

by WindySuspirations



Series: Kink Meme Prompts [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Drug-Induced Sex, F/M, Gang Rape, Kink Meme, M/M, Multi, Poor Cullen, Rape, Why Did I Write This?, i'm a bad person for writing this, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 15:45:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6158599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WindySuspirations/pseuds/WindySuspirations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen is trying to keep his eyes on the goings on in the ballroom, but he has attracted a bevy of Orlesian admirers. They won't leave him alone. Like, really - they won't leave him alone.  One of them spikes a glass of wine with Thedas' version of Rohypnol and they get him alone where they proceed to have their fun with him while an audience watches them, calling out suggestions on what they should do to poor Cullen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Happened on a Night at Halamshiral

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, please read the tags and the warnings: this story includes graphic depictions of non-consensual sex. If that creeps you out or triggers you, please skip this one.
> 
> I wrote this for kink meme, based on this prompt:
> 
> what if squeezing the commander's butt wasn't enough for some of the nobles at the winter palace? a group of them decides to spike his drink, and herds him to a secluded location, where they have their way with him.
> 
> # any kinks are fine, no squicks  
> \- not an enjoyable experience. cullen can't help how his body reacts, but mentally he doesn't want any of it for even a second  
> \+ he tries to get help, but either he's too dazed or the nobles are too good at dismissing what he tries to say, or the other party outright endorses what's happening (eg leliana encouraging it to have future blackmail material on the nobles involved or florianne being glad the commander is out of the way)  
> \+ only 1-3 nobles actually have their way with him, the others watch the performance from the sidelines & give suggestions on what to do to him  
> \+ lots and lots of ogling and groping  
> \+ rescue won't get there on time, but maybe someone finds him afterwards and helps him get dressed and cleaned up etc
> 
> It was very hard to write as I've never written dub con or non con before. I suppose I am stretching some writing muscles here. I hope it came out okay.
> 
> SunGirl is writing a sequel in which Cullen's friends help him after his ordeal, and in which the Inquisition will eventually get revenge for what was done to its Commander: [What Happens at Halamshiral](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8968327)
> 
> I am so thrilled that I've inspired other writers to pick up where I left off and run with it. It's the greatest compliment I could have been given. Thank you, SunGirl! You rock!

Cullen sighs and tries once again to extricate himself from the clutches of the Orlesian nobles who have surrounded him at his post against the wall of the Grand Ballroom. But it is useless; they have him cornered, and he cannot leave without abandoning his post.

“Smile, Commander,” the woman to his right simpers, brushing her hand over his face. “You’re so handsome when you smile.”

“He is just as handsome when he doesn’t,” counters the man to his left, and then of all things, the man reaches around and grasps his ass, giving it a good squeeze.

“Did you just…grab my bottom?” he growls and turns to scowl at the man. He wants to do more than that; he wants to plant his fist in the fool’s masked face, but he daren’t do such a thing, or Leliana would have his head.

“I’m a weak man,” the noble replies, but he wisely steps back from Cullen.

“Can I get you a drink, Commander Cullen,” says the woman in the feathered mask.

Cullen tugs on his collar and clears his throat, suddenly aware of how parched he is. “Why, yes, madam, if you would be so kind,” he says.

The woman smiles at him, a smile that’s a little too wide and too toothy. There’s something off about it, too, beyond the fact that she looks like a hungry cat about to pounce on her prey, but Cullen doesn’t have time to think too closely on it.

As she sashays away, he turns his attention to the ballroom floor where the Inquisitor is dancing with another noble, Duke de la some-such. He can never keep their names and titles straight in his head, much to Josephine’s chagrin.

She looks lovely in her midnight blue ball gown, its color complimenting her tanned décolletage, sumptuously displayed by the low cut bodice. Cullen’s heart trips over in his chest, and a thrill races up his spine straight from his groin.

He thinks of the kisses they’d shared — on the battlements and in his office — him seated on his desk and her standing between his legs— at the perfect height for exploring her mouth with his tongue, and her curves with his hands. How he yearns to lay her down on his bed and explore her body with nothing between them but the cool air of his loft. Andraste preserve him, but she drives him crazy.

He forces his gaze away from the Inquisitor and toward the far end of the ballroom where Gaspard’s sister — what’s her name again, Florianne, yes, of course, Florianne — is arguing with an elven staff member. She does not look at all happy.

“Here you are, Commander.” The woman wearing the feathered mask is back, and she is holding out a glass of wine toward him.

“Thank you, madam,” he says, taking the glass from her. He tips the glass back and drains it in one swallow. He doesn’t see the smirk and quick wink that the feathered woman and the ass-grabber share between them as he continues to scan the ballroom for anything untoward.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

An hour later, Cullen is mopping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. Maker, he is so hot. The shirt he is wearing under his jacket clings to the skin of his back, and his pants are likewise sticking uncomfortably to his muscular thighs. Worse yet, his ass and crotch burn like the Fallow Mire on a summer’s day.

He unbuttons the collar of his uniform jacket, hoping for some relief from the oppressive heat. Looking around him, no one else seems to be affected. Then he notices his vision begin to waver and the sounds of the ball — the conversations and the music — seem far away.

He rubs his eyes with one hand, shaking his head to try and clear his vision. No good. Fuck, just what he doesn’t need right now: another withdrawal attack. 

“Commander,” he hears the little man beside him say. “Commander, you do not look well.”

“What?”

“Bastien is right, Commander. Your face has gone gray.” It’s the woman who brought him the drink, the one in the ridiculously feathered mask. Her eyes shine like gimlets through the eyeholes, and again, he senses something off about her.

“Sylvie, let us take him outside…perhaps some fresh air would help?” The ass-grabber is speaking again. His nasal voice grates on Cullen’s nerves and worsens his headache.

“Yes, that’s a marvelous idea, Bastien.” The woman replies with a little trill in her voice.

“Come, Commander, let us help you,” says Bastien as he and Sylvie each take an arm and begin leading him away.

“But,” he tries to protest. _My post._ _The Inquisitor…I’m supposed to wait for her signal._ But he can’t get the rest of the words out.

The two Orlesians lead him out to one of the balconies that ring the ballroom. The cool night air feels marvelous on the overheated skin of his face, and he wants to strip off his uniform so that he can feel more of that lovely coolness on his body.

Seeming to read his mind, the feathered woman — Sylvie — begins to unbutton his jacket. “Let’s get this off you, hmmm? You must be boiling in it, poor dear,” she says, and her hands are almost tender as they finish and slide under the heavy velvet jacket, pushing it off his shoulders.

“Get the shirt off him, too, Sylvie,” orders Bastien from behind Cullen. “I want to see those big, burly Templar muscles of his.”

Cullen’s brow furrows. What in the Void? Hands are tugging his shirt off now, leaving his torso bare. This is so strange, and he thinks that he ought to be doing something: brushing them off, getting out of there, but it’s like his body has become disconnected from his brain.

“Bastien and Sylvie, what have you got here?” says another voice and Cullen turns his head toward the sound. Three more Orlesians stand at the balcony doors: two men and one woman. The woman slinks over to where the pair has Cullen against the balcony railing. “Surely you don’t intend to keep him all to yourselves.”

“Of course not, Magda,“ Bastien says. He circles to Cullen’s front and reaches down to roughly cup Cullen’s clothed balls in one hand. “He has more than enough to share with friends.” Bastien makes a theatrical gasp when Cullen, to his dismay, hardens against Bastien’s fingers. “And look, such an eager one he is!”

All five Orlesians laugh at Bastien’s joke. They form a circle around Cullen, trapping him against the balcony railing. Hands reach out and begin to caress his chest while others work to loosen his belt and the laces of his pants.

What madness is this? He wants to shove past them and get back to the ball. He wants to shove his fist into Bastien’s smug, masked face, but he can do neither.

“N..nn..” he tries to say no, as the new female, Magda, hooks her fingers around the waistband of his pants and smalls together and tugs them down. The cool air feels sharp against his ass and genitals, and he knows this is real. The horror of it nearly overwhelms him.

“Get those boots off him and finish removing his trousers,” she says, stepping around to his back and pressing her body against him. The metal trimmings on her gown dig painfully into his flesh, and her long nails scrape along his back, but he can’t so much as flinch away. “Mmm…he’s so strong. They do breed them big in Ferelden, no?”

“Come now, Commander,” says Sylvie, “Do be a good boy and help me remove the rest of your clothing.”

 _Get away from me, vile woman,_ he wants to say, but it comes out as “g..g.hh.”

“Yes, yes, I know, ma cher,” she pats him on the chest before dropping to her knees to unlace his boots. One by one, she tugs them off his feet and does the same with his socks. His trousers no longer held up by tops of his high boots, pool at his feet.

“Oh, look, Sylvie and Bastien have netted the Fereldan Commander,” says yet another voice and another gaggle of Orlesian nobles wanders over to them.

Sylvie and Bastien’s group step away from Cullen, while Magda turns him around to face the newcomers. She kicks at his legs to park him out like he’s a prized stallion at auction. “He’s a gift, no? So handsome and so well-endowed.” She reaches a hand down to stroke him to full arousal once more.

He looks anywhere but at the crowd of nobles now surrounding him. He knows his cheeks are bright red, and Maker help him, he feels tears of embarrassment and anger welling up in his eyes. Ruthlessly, he quashes them, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing him break.

“Maker! He is hung like a horse!”

“Sweet Andraste, look at his muscles! I have never seen a man built like him.”

“He’s so pretty! I want to take him home.”

Their voices meld into a cacophony of noise in his head. Dizziness overwhelms him, and he sways on his feet momentarily before someone reaches out to steady him.

More than one pair of hands is on him now, brushing at his nipples, caressing his ridged abdomen, rubbing his back, his ass, prodding at his anus, and cupping his sac. He writhes against them, his body’s betrayal a shame worse than what he’d experienced back at Kinloch.

The crowd of Orlesians has now completely filled the balcony except for a crescent of space around the balcony railing where Magda, Sylvia, and Bastien stand with Cullen.

They are so loud, it’s a wonder that the entire Winter Palace hasn’t come to see what the commotion is about. Cullen wants to cover his ears, but he can’t make his arms obey his commands. So, he stands there with Bastien fingering the cleft of his ass and the women’s hands roving his body.

“Let’s hear it, mes amis! How should we ravish our dear Commander?” Bastien shouts out to the crowd, and their response is immediate:

“Have him hold on to that railing while you take him, Bastien,” calls out one.

“Magda, you suck his cock while Bastien is pounding away at him,” suggests another.

“Ooh, delightful,” squeals Magda as she takes Cullen’s arm and turns him toward the railing. She places his hands there and orders him to hold on before kneeling before him.

Behind him, he hears Bastien’s low chuckle and feels a manicured finger slide inside him. “Maker, he’s so tight! I don’t think he’s ever been penetrated here before” He laughs. “I think this ass is a virgin one…and I shall take great delight in initiating it.”

Cullen growls deep in his throat and feels himself blush, much to the delighted laughter of the nobles watching him. Impotent rage fills him, and he doesn’t know if the greater part is for the Orlesians or for himself.

“Careful not to damage him,” Sylvie warns.

“Stop worrying!” Bastien admonishes her, then Cullen hears him unbuckling his belt, followed by the rustling of cloth. Soft hands that have never done an honest day’s labor grip his hips and pull them sharply back until he is impaled on Bastien’s hard cock.

He cries out as a searing pain envelops him and his anus clamps down, attempting to block further intrusion. But it is no use: Bastien pays him no mind as thrusts his own hips forward until he is completely hilted in Cullen.

He is glad of the pain, for it momentarily stills his body’s traitorous response. It doesn’t last long, though. A warm mouth envelops him from below, and he can’t stop the low moan he makes. Shame floods him anew, and he screws his eyes closed.

”Oh yes, my big Fereldan warrior,“ croons Bastien from behind him. One hand comes up to grab a fistful of his hair. “You have such beautiful hair, Commander,” the man hisses in his ear as he slams his hips against Cullen’s ass, the sound of skin slapping against skin carrying in the night air. “Mmm…so good,” he moans. “This is how you should service your betters.”

In front of him, Magda is sucking him in earnest now. She is licking up and down his shaft with her tongue, nibbling at him with her teeth and gently squeezing his sac with one hand. The other is wrapped around his thigh, digging into him with her nails.

His body betrays him anew as he bucks against her, nearly fucking her mouth. He thinks that he’ll probably come soon, and he hopes that they will leave him alone after that.

“Let me have a turn,” says Sylvie, and then her mouth is on him while Magda stands and grabs him by the hair to twist his neck toward her. Her mouth crashes down on his, and helplessly, he responds to her, opening his mouth to her hot tongue. He is kissing her back, moaning into her mouth.

Meanwhile, Bastien’s thrusts are becoming erratic. “Oh Maker,” he groans, shudders and Cullen feels the warm jets of his semen burst inside him. He grimaces as Bastien pulls out with a slick pop. Fluid leaks out with him, sliding down the crease of his ass and the insides of his thighs.

The cool air stings against his raw anus and cools his body’s ardor. He winces and can’t stop the moan of pain from escaping him. He thinks that if he wasn’t holding on to the railing that he might collapse. He wants to test that theory, but again, his body won’t obey the dictates of his mind.

Sylvie releases him from her mouth and stands beside Magda, her upper lip curled in a sneer.

“Bastien, did you have to be so rough? “ Sylvie chastises him. “Now we shall have the Fade’s own time getting him ready to for us.”

“Nonsense,” counters Bastien. “The Commander is no fragile flower. Just work him a little, and he’ll rise to the occasion, as it were.” He giggles at his childish innuendo.

Cullen’s jaw clenches. Never has he wanted to kill someone more than he wants to kill this Bastien. He wants to wrap his big warrior’s hands around the smaller man’s throat and choke the life out of him.

“Let’s move him,” Magda says, taking his hand and pulling on his arm. As he straightens and moves away from the railing, the pain from his torn anus overwhelms him.

He might have blacked out for a moment, because the next thing he knows, he is sprawled on his back on the floor. The two women are standing over him arguing over which one of them gets to fuck him first.

Cullen would laugh if he didn’t want to scream. The marble floor is cold against his bare back, and his ass still throbs with pain. He closes his eyes and thinks of Evelyn, thinks of what she’ll think of him when she finds out. He can’t bear the thought of her loving expression turning to disgust when she looks at him.

The two noblewomen continue to stand above him and argue until a voice from the crowd settles the matter: “One of you ride him while the other sits on his face,”

A chorus of “yesses” arise from the giggling mob of nobles. Sylvie and Magda look at each other and then at him. Then Sylvie is rucking up her skirts and squatting over him while Magda straddles his neck and pushes her quim over his face.

The hot scent of woman invades his nostrils as Sylvie works her hands over him, and the combination has him fully erect in seconds, despite his myriad aches and pains. Fingers stroke his inner thighs and scrape his sac as Magda grinds herself over his chin and his lips, coating him with her cream.

Although he can’t see her with Magda squatted over his face, Sylvie must be satisfied with the state of his arousal for he feels the warmth of her cunt slide over him as she sheaths him within her. He hears her contented sigh as she starts to move slowly against him.

Magda smiles at him from her position at his head. She winks and drops the bodice of her gown to bare her breasts. She tosses her head back and moans as she strokes them, thrusting her chest forward.

Then she straightens, and her eyes glint from behind her mask as she stares down at him. Her teeth come out to bite down on her lower lip as she hisses her pleasure. “You like this Commander?”

Maker, no! But Sylvie is fucking him faster now, rocking her hips back and forth and driving herself onto him over and over. Her moans mingle with Magda’s, and this pushes him over the edge. He groans loudly as he empties himself into Sylvie.

The crowd of Orlesians cheers as if they have been watching a horse race or a pugilist match. They hoot their pleasure and clap with mad abandon. _I’ve finally lost my mind_ , he thinks, because it’s all so surreal.

Cullen turns his face away as Magda rises to her feet. She reaches down and pats his cheek. Sylvie has already gotten up and is straightening her gown. The crowd is dispersing now, none of them sparing him a second glance.

For a while, all he can do is lie where he is. He knows he should get up and at least attempt to cover himself, but he doesn’t have the energy to move. Evelyn’s sweet face contorted in disgust swims before his eyes and he finally curls up into a ball and allows the tears to flow.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Some time later, how long he doesn’t know, he hears raised voices and the sound of feet running toward him. He squeezes his eyes shut and curls further into himself. Maker, he hopes that it isn’t the Orlesians, come back to torture him some more.

“Cullen!” It’s Dorian’s voice. A hand cups his shoulder. “It’s okay. We’ve got you,” he says and carefully coaxes him onto his back. Cullen grunts as Dorian cradles his head and looks him over. “Fasta Vass! Find something to cover him with,” he orders sharply.

“His clothes are over here,” comes Bull’s deep voice from the right.

“Bring them, hurry!”

“The Inquisitor…” Cullen whispers as gentle hands under his arms help him to his feet.

“She’s with the Queen,” says Dorian, and Cullen sighs with relief. She will not see him like this, would not witness his weakness. “What happened here? We’ve been looking for you for half the night. She’s worried about you.”

Cullen makes a face as he accepts his clothes from Bull. “I do not wish to discuss it.” He shrugs off their offers of assistance as he staggers to the railing.

“Boss’ll want to know what happened to you,” Bull reminds him.

He leans against the railing to put on his pants, avoiding the eyes of the other two men. He doesn’t like the compassion he sees there. He doesn’t deserve it. “Tell her you found me passed out drunk,” he says as he tugs closed the laces of his trousers.

Dorian snorts. “As if she’ll believe such a preposterous lie!”

Cullen glares at him. “Then tell her you found me dusted in the lyrium stores!” Shrugging into his jacket and tossing his shirt over his shoulder, he starts limping for the door. He needs to get to his room, and a bath needs to escape before the Inquisitor can find him like this. Better that she believe him a relapsed lyrium addict or a drunkard than to know the truth.

He has always known that it’s too much to ask, too much to hope for something with her. Tonight proves that. He cannot be in a relationship with her, that much is clear. She deserves better than the ruined and debauched man he is.

Ignoring Dorian’s and Bull’s pleas to wait, Cullen stalks off in the direction of his rooms. He knows what he must do:  he’ll command her armies, and he’ll advise her on military matters, as he swore to do from the start. And he’ll do everything in his power to keep her safe. Even from himself.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that's it. As always, comments and criticisms are welcome. 
> 
> OP, whoever you are, I hope I did your prompt justice.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [What Happens At Halamshiral](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8968327) by [SunGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunGirl/pseuds/SunGirl)




End file.
